


His Master's Voice

by deklava



Series: The Man Who Beat Sherlock [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Fingerfucking, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian loves having Sherlock between his legs. But tonight is especially delicious because he’s teaching a thirty-four year old man how to properly masturbate.</p>
<p>“Lie back further,” he purrs into the detective’s ear, his breath causing gooseflesh to explode all over that perfect skin, “I’m going to show you how to make yourself feel so good.”</p>
<p>Sherlock swallows loudly as he lets his full weight rest on Ian’s chest. They’re leaning against the headboard on the Man’s bed, their bodies flickering red in the Christmas lights from the townhouse across the road. Visually it’s like making love in a darkroom, only it’s passion they’re developing, not film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Master's Voice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcantsaymylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcantsaymylastname/gifts).



> **Beta:** chasingriver. A holiday fic for **youcantsaymylastname** , who agrees that when it comes to Ian Adler, there's no such thing as "too much".
> 
> BBC Sherlock and all images used are the intellectual property of other parties, and used here for entertainment purposes only.

Ian loves having Sherlock between his legs. But tonight is especially delicious because he’s teaching a thirty-four year old man how to properly masturbate.

“Lie back further,” he purrs into the detective’s ear, his breath causing gooseflesh to explode all over that perfect skin, “I’m going to show you how to make yourself feel so good.”

Sherlock swallows loudly as he lets his full weight rest on Ian’s chest. They’re leaning against the headboard on the Man’s bed, their bodies flickering red in the Christmas lights from the townhouse across the road. Visually it’s like making love in a darkroom, only it’s passion they’re developing, not film.

“You’re going to miss me while you’re in America with Dr. Watson, aren’t you?” Ian’s hands run all over Sherlock’s bare chest. He had donned a pair of black silk pyjamas after their shared bath but insisted that Sherlock remain naked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And I shall miss you. But every time you pleasure yourself, you will think of me, won’t you?”

Sherlock clutches Ian’s thighs, which bracket his waist and anchor him.  “God, yes, Sir.”

“Good boy.” The Man pinches one dark nipple, relishing the gasp that results. “Now close your eyes.”

Sherlock shivers as he obeys. His stiff cock pokes the cool air. Ian’s hard too, but he resists the urge to rut against his lover’s back.

“Let’s begin, shall we? I want you to start by sucking on the fingers of your right hand. Get them nice and wet. Then play with your nipples: they’re delightfully sensitive.”

The detective brings his long white digits to his mouth, wetting them down to the first knuckle. Glistening fingertips trail down to his nipples, which are hard enough to cut glass. They become even stiffer as he grazes their very edges, coating the darkening skin with saliva. A single pinch to one of them makes his stomach muscles tighten and knees shiver.

Ian smiles. “Very good. Now use your left hand to touch your balls. Do it slowly. Gently.”

Sherlock’s long legs fall open even wider as he cups his testicles, which are smooth and tight and hard. His movements are initially tentative and exploratory, but once he discovers a pressure that feels good, a small smile curls his lips.

“Mmm. Oh. Th-that’s nice.”

“Keep doing that,” the Man orders. “Do not touch your cock until I tell you to. Understood?”

The detective nods, his real attention clearly elsewhere. Ian bites his shoulder. Hard.

“Answer me, pet.”

“Ow!” Sherlock’s eyes fly open and his hands go still. “Y-yes! Sir, yes, I understand.”

“Excellent.” The Man’s tongue bathes the livid bite marks. “Now continue.”

Sherlock exhales, breathing out the pain, before he closes his eyes and resumes his ministrations. Soon he’s shifting on the sheets, soft noises percolating in his throat as his nipple pinches become firmer and he discovers a sensitive place behind his testicles. As the minutes pass in the scarlet-hued darkness, Ian sees that he’s growing desperate to touch his erection: the hand caressing his sack keeps moving upward, and he repeatedly pulls it back with a frustrated moan.

“Incredible,” Ian says. “You’ve _never_ indulged yourself like this before?”

“Not like this, Sir,” Sherlock whispers. “I- I always regarded the body as transport.”

“And now you understand that it’s also a vehicle of pleasure.”

Peering down, Ian can see that the forced neglect has left Sherlock’s penis swollen and angry-looking. It lies against that flat belly, smearing the soft skin with clear fluid as it twitches in sync with Sherlock’s racing pulse.

“Please, Sir.” Sherlock arches his back, his head digging into Ian’s collarbone. “May I touch my cock now?”

Ian wants to grant him permission, to see him unravel even more. But the detective still has to learn that manipulation- whether it be in the form of begging, sulking, or complaining- won’t get him anywhere. They’re almost at that point in his training, but not quite.

His right hand goes to Sherlock’s throat. “What will you do if I say no? Disobey me?”

“N-no, Sir. But I might go mad.”

He sounds desperate enough for it to be a possibility. Smiling, Ian says, “Well, we can’t have that, can we? But in my house, the more you want something, the bigger the price.”

Sherlock listens.

“I’ll let you touch your cock without further preamble. But once this session ends, you must accept five strokes from my cane.”

It’s more of a threat than a bargain, and the Man knows it. Sherlock loves being cropped, flogged, and whipped, but he loathes the rattan cane and submits to it only when the promised reward outweighs the instrument’s white-hot bite and the humiliation of being punished like a schoolboy.

The detective exposes the depth of his need when he whispers, “I accept, Sir.”

“Very well, then.” Ian releases his throat with a calmness that masks his excitement. Making Sherlock submit arouses him like nothing else does. “Hold yourself snugly at the base with your left hand. Then bring your fist up slowly, twisting it when you reach the tip.”

Sherlock follows those instructions, shuddering when his fingers close around his shaft. After taking a deep, prolonged breath he strokes upward until his fist pushes the foreskin up and over the slick tip, smearing his palm with pre-ejaculate.

“Oh,” he moans.

“Again,” Ian orders. “Keep stroking yourself like that until I tell you to stop. I also want you to continue pinching your nipples with as much force as you find pleasurable.” He leans in closer. “As you do, imagine that your fingertips are my teeth, nibbling at your sensitive flesh.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sherlock, fingers still moist with saliva, circles his right nipple before applying a pressure that makes him hiss and shift in the Man’s arms. When the thumb of his other hand bumps against the sweet spot under the head of his penis, he cries out and his hips jerk upward. Ian can feel the heated arousal that now races through that pale body.

“How does it feel, Sherlock?” he croons. “Tell me everything.”

“It- it’s like I’m losing control,” the detective stutters. He sounds both excited and afraid. “I’m not used to this. It feels so good but so dangerous.”

“Because you’re doing it to yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock.” Ian holds him tighter. “I understand that in the past, you fell victim to unsafe indulgences. But trust me when I tell you that giving yourself this kind of pleasure will never harm you.”

Sherlock nods. Ian kisses his jaw line.

“You’re so beautiful like this. Continue.”

Sherlock quickly finds the perfect combination of sensation and rhythm. With each upstroke he massages the underside of his cockhead, setting off nerve-storms that make his toes curl. “Oh,” he sighs, digging his heels into the mattress and fucking his fist in slow, lazy motions. “Must take it slow, mustn’t let it happen too quickly….”

“That’s right, my pet. Pace yourself.” Ian continues to cradle Sherlock against his chest as he reaches for the lube on the nearby towel stack. The slight shift in position causes his erection to brush against the euphoric detective’s back, and only his phenomenal self-control keeps him from throwing Sherlock down and fucking him into the mattress. “Give me your right hand.”

Sherlock reluctantly releases one puffy nipple and reaches backward. Ian squeezes a generous amount of the fast-warming gel onto his fingers.

“Now play with your hole. Just the rim. No penetrating yourself yet.”

Sherlock nods again and lets his now-slick hand glide between his legs. Ian watches the tendons in his forearm flex and contract as he explores the opening that only Ian has ever breached.

“Talk to me,” the Man urges after a few minutes pass.

“I-I feel myself relaxing, Sir. The muscle is becoming soft and slick.” Sherlock licks his lips. The hand on his cock moves faster. “I’m imagining it’s your tongue, pushing and licking at me.”

Ian’s throat becomes so tight that swallowing is next to impossible. He’s so hard that it hurts. The pyjama fabric that separates his erection from Sherlock’s lower back is soaked. When he can finally speak, he says, “Put one finger all the way in. I want you to find that spot that gives you so much pleasure whenever I fuck you.”

Not all men find their own prostate easily, Ian knows. He’s had male clients who fumble blindly inside themselves until he takes pity on them and provides the anatomical version of driving directions. Sherlock, however, finds the right spot the moment he curls his finger. The response is electrifying: he sucks in a sharp and searing breath, his legs kick out, and the trembling in his limbs escalates to full-blown shaking.

“Press harder,” Ian commands.

When Sherlock obeys, his eyes fly open and his hips thrust toward the ceiling. The hand on his cock moves faster. “Oh my God,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Oh, it’s so much. I-I can’t-”

Ian seizes his wrist, keeping it in place. “Yes, you can. And you will, because it pleases me to watch you like this. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Ian releases him after a warning squeeze. Every now and then Sherlock needs firm reminders of their relationship’s dynamic. “Now use two fingers.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, grunting and cursing under his breath as he fucks himself. His cock is so stiff that it barely bends when he massages it, and his balls are tight against his body. One particularly deep inward thrust has him biting his tongue to hold back a shout.

He’s nearly there, so the Man decides to force him across the finish line. After kissing his sweat-damp neck, Ian picks up the discarded lube bottle, flicks it open with his thumb, and drizzles some of its contents over an anal vibrator sitting on a towel like some sacred offering. He bought it for Sherlock that morning, and the thought of watching the detective use it now has fire pooling in his gut.

“You know what to do with this,” he says as he switches it on and holds it out.

Sherlock does know. He pulls his fingers out of his arse, takes the slick, rumbling device, and presses it against his loosened hole. After inhaling deeply, he pushes it in slowly, moaning as the ribbed surface teases his sensitive insides.

Ian knows what will happen next, and moves quickly. He grabs and holds both of Sherlock’s wrists just as the toy’s curved tip settles against the other man’s prostate.

“Oh- oh, God!” Sherlock babbles, surging forward as he fights the Man’s hold. The sweat that merely gave his body a lovely sheen seconds ago is now thick enough to run down his face and chest, soaking the sheets. Ian knows that the more he struggles, the more the vibrator will shift inside him, touching him _everywhere_. He finally stops thrashing and slumps against Ian, eyes half-closed and hips grinding against the bed, driving the toy deeper.

“Good boy,” Ian soothes as he releases Sherlock’s wrists. “Now touch your cock. Let me see you come.”

The detective takes his erection in both hands this time, creating a slippery, full-length tunnel for him to thrust into. Using his thumb, he rubs that heavenly spot just below the head while his hips shudder and the toy buzzes mercilessly against his prostate.

“Thank you, Sir, thank you, thank you,” he chants before it happens.

Ian watches his face as ecstasy tears through his body, shattering his senses and making him come so hard that his power of speech is lost and there’s only mindless shouting. Sperm shoots everywhere: some even hits the Man’s face and trails down his cheek in a lava-hot drizzle.

Ian’s tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth, snaring a taste as he hugs his lover tightly through the post-orgasm tremors. Sherlock’s ejaculate is thick and just sweet enough to offset the normally bitter tang of sperm. It makes him hungry for more, and when he sees Sherlock pull the vibrator out, he knows exactly what he needs to do next.

Ian slides away from Sherlock, grasps him by the back of the neck, and forces him onto all fours, with his face buried in the mattress and arse raised. The sight of the young man’s wet, spasming hole is so inflammatory that Ian yanks down the waistband of his pyjamas and rolls on a lubricated condom without his usual finesse.

“That was a lovely sight, Sherlock. I’m sure you must be exhausted right now, but you can rest after I fuck you.”

Sherlock only has time to groan his consent before Ian’s cock pierces him to the hilt. His internal muscles clamp down, still tight despite the earlier fingering and vibrator play.

“That’s it, Sherlock,” the Man sighs as he briefly stills, fingers digging into his lover’s hips. “Such a good boy, staying so lovely and tight for your Master’s cock.”

He pounds into Sherlock’s arse, his need to come overriding his usual preference for more pre-fuck verbal domination. When he comes hard and deep, he feels like he’s been turned inside out.

Maybe, in the non-literal sense, he has. His clients command his time, but Sherlock rules something much deeper.

******

After they both sleep for a few hours, Ian delivers on his promise of five strokes from the cane. The blows leave blue-black stripes on Sherlock’s buttocks and even break the skin in places, but Ian’s going to _miss_ him, damn it, and wants to ensure that the detective remembers him while sitting, wearing tight trousers, etc, during the next two weeks, even though the Atlantic Ocean divides them.

When Sherlock looks over his shoulder after the last blow is struck, face glowing beneath the pain-induced tears, and begs for five more, Ian knows that Sherlock will miss him too.


End file.
